Like a lone mountain white with virgin snow,
Which holds within its breast eternal fire
This woman cold and pale with face of woe
Yet feels at heart an unappeased desire.
Reginald Blake walked briskly up the avenue. It had an excessively dreary appearance, for the black looking trees with their angular branches seemed starved and attenuated while the leaves underfoot were sodden with rain. The marble statues which were standing here and there, wore a disconsolate look, as if they longed for the sunny skies of their native Italy, and mutely protested against this misty climate which discoloured and marred their beauty.
When he arrived at the terrace, the long white fa?ade of the house seemed grim and uninviting. No smoke ascended from the slender chimneys, no face appeared at the bare staring windows, and the terrace, which should have been thronged with gay company, was silent and deserted, chilling the very soul with its mute sense of desolation.
The young man rang the bell in the monstrous porch, and before the harsh jangling had ceased to echo through the dreary house, the door was opened by Jellicks. On recognising Blake, she wriggled a welcome and admitted him into the vault-like hall which still retained the musty smell observed by Nestley. Outside the grey sky, inside the grey twilight, it seemed as though the sun had not warmed this dismal place with his cheerful beams for centuries.
"I want to see Miss Challoner," said Reginald, when the heavy door was once more closed, "is she at home?"
Jellicks replied that she was, in a serpent-like hiss, and then, still more like a serpent, she wriggled along the dark corridor on the ground floor followed by Blake, who felt depressed by the surrounding atmosphere of decay.
At length she stopped midway in the passage and on knocking at a door was bidden by a thin voice, seemingly that of Miss Cassy, to enter.
Reginald did so, and Jellicks having twisted herself apologetically out of the room, he stepped forward to greet Una and Cassandra, who were seated in the wide window looking out on to the white terrace and dreary landscape.
Una, flushed with life and beauty, seemed somewhat out of place in this charnel house though, truth to tell, the room had a more homelike appearance than the rest of the Grange. Not very large, panelled with carved oak, dark and solemn-looking, it was hung round with pictures in tarnished gilt frames, the floor being covered with a comfortable-looking carpet of reddish tint. In the huge fireplace burned a goodly fire, which somewhat warmed the chill atmosphere. The furniture was quaint and old-fashioned, of all dates, ranging from heavy oak tables of Tudor days to spindle-legged Chippendale chairs and curiously inlaid cabinets of more modern construction. There was only one window in the room, a deep oriel with benches set in its depths and its diamond panes rich with brightly tinted escutcheons of the Garsworth family. A quaint room of ancient and incongruous appearance, yet having withal a quiet beauty of its own, a tone of intense restfulness, which was not without charm.
"Good morning, Miss Challoner," said Reginald politely, mindful of the presence of Miss Cassy. "I have called by the desire of Dr. Larcher to see how the squire is."
"Oh, better, much better," interposed Miss Cassy before Una could speak. "I said it was nerves all along--so very odd--quite excitable he was, but the dear doctor's medicine you know--so soothing, really very soothing--I don't know what the dear squire will do without the dear doctor."
"He's not going to do without him, aunt," said Una with a smile; "my cousin is afraid of getting ill again, so has asked Dr. Nestley to stay down here for a few weeks to complete the cure."
"What about his own practice?" asked Reginald.
"Oh, he says that will be all right, as he has left it in charge of his partner. Have you met Dr. Nestley?"
"Yes, at the gates; he has gone back to Garsworth with Mr. Beaumont."
"Beaumont," said Miss Cassy with vivacity, "that is the painter, very odd, isn't it? he's going to paint the dear squire's picture--how nice."
"Why does the squire want his picture painted?" inquired Blake.
Una laughed.
"Not for his beauty, at all events," she said mischievously, "but, you know, there is only one picture of him in the gallery--as a young man. I presume this will be for the sake of contrast. Do you know Mr. Beaumont?"
"Slightly. He's a stranger here," replied Blake, a little coldly. "I should say he was a very clever man--but he is hardly the style I care about."
"He looks wicked," said Miss Cassy, nodding her head sagely; "worn, you know--oh, shocking!--but very handsome--just the kind of man I would like for a son."
"Oh, aunt!" said Una, slightly shocked.
"Well, I would, Una. You know I should like to have been married--I'm sure I don't know why I haven't been married," said the poor lady, pathetically. "I'm sure anyone can see I'm not made for a spinster--it's so odd, isn't it?"
Blake, being directly appealed to, suppressed a smile, and, and assented politely; whereupon Miss Cassy resumed:
"It's so hard for an unmarried girl to know when to leave off being a girl--I'm sure I don't know--ivy, you know, I feel like it; I'm made to cling to a manly oak--no, I mean an oakly man--no! not that--mixed, you see! I mean a man like an oak--yes, that's it, and then I might have had twelve stalwart sons--all oaks! Odd, isn't it?--most peculiar."
"My dear aunt, what curious things you say!" said Una, looking reproachfully at Reggy, who was trying to smother his laughter.
"Yes, I know, dear," replied Miss Cassy, complacently, "we're all odd--nerves--quite chronic; anyone can see that it comes of being an ivy--I mean a woman--so very nice--yes, I always say so--don't you, Mr. Blake?"
Reginald could not exactly say he did, as he was in doubt as to what Miss Cassy meant, but made some confused answer, and then asked to see Patience Allerby.
"She's in the housekeeper's room, I think," said Una. "Auntie will take you there, and when you are done with her I'll go to Garsworth with you."
"Will you, really? I'm so glad!" said Reginald, eagerly.
"I want to see Cecilia in the church," replied Miss Challoner, "about the concert."
"What concert?"
"Don't you know? Oh, we're going to have a concert in the school-room shortly. You are to be asked to sing."
"Delighted."
"Cecilia will play a piece--she doesn't like the piano as much as the organ, but we can hardly get that out of the church."
"I'm going to sing also," said Miss Cassy, shaking her curls, "so nice--quite operatic. I'll sing a duet with you, Mr. Blake, if you like."
Blake hastily excused himself, as he had great dread of Miss Cassy's vocal performances, which were, to say the least, somewhat screechy. The lady accepted his apology graciously, and then led him out of the room to find the housekeeper, leaving Una to get ready for the walk.
Miss Cassy, being delighted to have a charming young man for audience, chattered all the way in a disconnected fashion.
"So damp, isn't it--quite chilly. I never did like the weather. Very watery--rheumatic, you know. I mean the weather, of course--not myself! I think Patience is in her room--so kind of you to see your old nurse--quite delightful! Light of what's his name, you know--Moore--exactly; Irish melodies--so pretty! This is the door. Oh, Patience--you are in--so glad--here is Mr. Blake to see you! The squire's easier--yes, nerves, of course--I knew it. I'll go back to Una, Mr. Blake, and see you later on--very pleased, indeed--quite a treat to see a male. Sounds like the post--very odd, isn't it?--yes!"
And Miss Cassy, closing the door after her, departed leaving Reginald alone with his old nurse.
The tall, placid woman, standing near the fireplace, made a step forward, as if to embrace Reginald, but restrained herself, as though doubtful how to proceed. Blake, however, crossed over to her and kissed her affectionately, which seemed to awaken a feeling of emotion in her breast, for she flushed a little at the caress, and smiled lovingly at him. In her demure, slate-coloured dress, with the white apron and pale, rigid face, she looked like a woman who had never known what it was to love or be loved; but every now and then a flash in the sombre depths of her eloquent eyes betrayed the fiery nature hidden beneath that calm exterior. The young man's kiss seemed to warm her frozen soul to life, and, as she resumed her seat, her face was rose-flushed, her eyes soft, and the hard lines about her mouth disappeared under the magic of Reginald Blake's presence. He, dark and handsome, leaned against the mantelpiece, looking down at her curiously, as if puzzled how to begin the conversation.
"I am so glad to see you, Master Reginald," she said, the hard voice in which she habitually spoke becoming soft and tender. "I have not seen you for a long time."
"A whole week, Patience, that's all," he replied, carelessly. "You see I'm busy with my studies."
"That's right, dear!" she said, eagerly. "Work--work hard, and make a name in the world.
"For whose sake?" he asked, a little bitterly.
"For mine!"
There was a world of tenderness in the way in which she spoke the words, and her eyes seemed to devour him as she gazed. He moved restlessly, and with a supreme effort plunged straight into the object of his visit.
"Why not for my parents' sake?"
The woman's face lost its look of tenderness, and became hard and rigid as she pressed the arms of her chair convulsively, and looked up into his face.
"Who has been speaking to you about them," she asked fiercely.
"Doctor Larcher."
"And the reason?"
"Simply this: I am two-and-twenty years of age, so it's time I had some aim in life. Before I do this I want to know all about my parentage. Are my parents alive or dead?--who are they?--why was I placed in your charge?--can they, or their relations, assist me to get on in the world? I cannot move until I know who and what I am."
He spoke vehemently, and as he did so the woman seemed to shrink back into her chair with a nameless dread in her eyes. There was no sound for a moment. At last she broke the silence.
"Your parents were my master and mistress," she said at length, in a low, harsh voice, "married against their parents' wish."
"They were married, then?"
"Who said they were not?" she demanded, fiercely.
"No one. But the mystery of my birth led me to think there might be----"
"Shame!" she interrupted, vehemently. "You are wrong. There was no shame--they kept the marriage secret, for if known they would have lost their property. When you were born, they went over to France for the sake of your father's health, leaving you in my charge. I was to keep you till they could acknowledge you as their son; but before they could do so they died."
"Died!"
"Yes. Your father died of phthisis at Cannes six months after he left England, and your mother very soon followed him to the grave."
"She died of what?"
"A broken heart," replied Patience, in a low voice, "a broken heart, poor soul."
"Good God!"
"I heard of it shortly afterwards," she went on, rapidly, "and as your birth had never been acknowledged I determined to bring you up without letting anyone know the truth. After staying some time in London, I brought you to Doctor Larcher, and he has had charge of you since."
"Why did you come here?"
"Because it is my native place. I only intended to stay for a time, and then return to service in London, but Squire Garsworth wanted a housekeeper, so I took the situation in order to remain near you."
"Why did you not tell me this before."
"There was no need to," she answered, coldly, "and even now it is useless. Your parents are dead, and the property has gone to distant heirs."
"But I am the heir."
She shook her head.
"No, the property was not entailed--it was left by will, and you have no claim on the present holder."
"Who was my father?"
"He had been in the army, but sold out when he married, and became a writer."
"What was his name?"
"Reginald Blake--the same as your own."
"It's my real name, then?"
She looked at him in surprise.
"Of course! Why should you not take your father's name? There was no reason."
"So I am alone in the world?"
"Yes, except for me."
He stepped over to her, and placed his arm caressingly on her shoulder.
"Ah, you have been a mother to me," he said quickly, "and I shall never forget it. No one could have acted with more kindness and fidelity."
Patience winced and shrank away from his caress while he walked up and down the room, talking cheerfully.
"Now my mind is at rest," he said, with a sigh of relief. "I thought the mystery of my birth involved some stain, but since I have the right to bear my father's name, why! I feel quite happy. I can make my way in the world by myself, can ask the girl I love to be my wife."
"The girl you love," she repeated jealously.
"Yes, I will tell you her name, though no one else knows it--Una."
"Miss Challoner," said the woman, starting up; "impossible!"
"Why impossible?" he retorted gaily. "You think I am not rich enough. Never mind; I carry a fortune in my throat, and will soon be able to keep her in comfort. She loves me and I love her, so we shall be quite happy."
"I hope so," she said fervently. "May God's blessing rest on your efforts. Yes, marry Una Challoner if she loves you, and make your own way without troubling about the dead."
"I never knew my parents," said Reginald, sighing, "so I can hardly regret them, but with Una to work for I will forget the past and look forward to the future. I have nothing to offer her now but a stainless name. Never mind; ambition can perform miracles. Now, good-bye, nurse; I must get back to Garsworth."
"Good-bye," she said, kissing him eagerly. "Come again soon, my dear boy; and although Una Challoner loves you, do not forget your old nurse."
"Of course not," he replied gaily, and walked away humming an air. Patience Allerby waited till the door was closed and the sound of his voice had died away, then fell on her knees, beating her breast with her hands and weeping bitterly.
"God! God!" she cried, amid convulsive sobs, "pardon my sin. It was for his sake, for his dear sake, not for my own. Let the dead past be forgotten. Let him never know anything but what I have told him, and bless him, oh God, in his future life."
There was a crucifix of black ebony against the wall, and from it, with pitying eyes, looked down the face of the Lord at the stricken woman kneeling before him. The ineffable sorrow of the sacred face seemed to calm her spirit, for she ceased to weep and her lips moved in a prayer which seemed to come from her heart.
"Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us."